Rooted
by Laura Elizabeth
Summary: Modern one-shot (possibly longer.) "He eyes her curiously before sitting next to her in the same prayer pose, and watching her intently. Head bent and eyes closed, she's whispering in the tongue that had long since died on the lips of their predecessors. He marvels at how easy it comes back to her, how graceful her magic seems compared to his own."


**A/N:** The show and its characters are not mine. The plot, however, is.

Hello, it's been a long time. Life has been... well, life. I'm sorry I've neglected all of my stories. I'm going to work toward finishing all of them. I hope everyone is well. Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated!

 **Rooted**

An owl breaks him out of a fitful sleep. He allows his eyes to adjust to the dark room, and reaches out to her side of the bed, only to meet cool sheets with his fingertips. Quietly, he slips out of bed and slides his trainers on without socks, shrugs into a jacket, and heads for the back door. He can feel her presence at the back of his mind, lingering there, but not active. Faintly, he can feel her magic swirling around him, encasing him in a sort of invisible blanket. It was quiet, inviting, and he finds his feet moving of their own volition, to the far side of their yard, near the forest line. He can see her figure in the distance, bent low to the earth, and wearing nothing but a small white nightgown. Merlin frowns at her state of undress. She was always neglectful in this way. There had been snow on the ground barely two weeks ago. It was cold for late April. And the wind blowing off the sea only made it that much colder.

She doesn't look up from where she is sitting, but he can feel the air shift around them, as if her magic acknowledges him. He eyes her curiously before sitting next to her in the same prayer pose, and watching her intently. Head bent and eyes closed, she's whispering in the tongue that had long since died on the lips of their predecessors. He marvels at how easy it comes back to her, how graceful her magic seems compared to his own. She's been digging, he notices. Her hands are caked in dirt and the moonlight illuminates the small ivory seeds like tiny pearls that she has yet to cover.

Wordlessly, he reaches out and covers her hands with his own. He uses magic to warm her hands, and mentally chastises her for not taking better care of herself. Hearing his thoughts, her gaze flicks to him before depositing some of the seeds into his hands, encouraging him to plant alongside her. He stares down at them, his mind trying to work out what sort of plant would sprout from them.

"Violets." She turns to him and smiles. Still, after all these years, she manages to take his breath away. Her cheeks are red with cold, but her eyes are bright, happy. He breathes out noisily, and the air condensates into a little white cloud.

"Why?"

She laughs a little, and swipes at her cheek with the back of her hand. Dirt streaks across her pale skin, and he laughs too, reaching out to wipe it off her. "They can pretty much take care of themselves." When he doesn't respond she adds, "As a ritual for Beltane. We haven't thought much of the old religion in a long time, have we?"

"No, we haven't." He watches as she pushes the seeds into the dirt, covering them with both hands and then mulling over the earth in a clockwise motion. It's hypnotic, really. She's hypnotic.

"Here." She breaks him of his thoughts and tugs on his coat sleeve. "Your turn."

He's hesitant. His magic is clumsy—save from the odd house chore it has suffered great disuse. Suddenly, reconnecting with that side of himself feels awkward. "What shall I say?"

"Whatever is in your heart, I suppose."

He closes his eyes and allows his hands to move slow and methodical. As he turns the soil, the magic works its way through him. He asks for growth. For guidance, for understanding. He asks for the health of Morgana, and their cat, Bartholomew. But most importantly, he asks to remember these moments. The ones that connect them back to the earth, their roots. The ones that take them back to a time of knights and horses and servants and kings. To a time where even in the most strained circumstances, they managed to find each other.

She reaches out and touches his shoulder tentatively, asks if he's ok.

Nostalgia washed away, he nods, stands, and brushes his hands against his pants. "We should go inside before you catch your death."

She laughs at the joke and sidles up next to him, hugging him sideways and burying her arms inside his coat. "I'm covered in dirt." She giggles and eyes her nightgown.

"We can fix that."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Definitely. We can't have you seen like this milady, it wouldn't be appropriate."

She would have something witty to say if she weren't busy snogging him within an inch of his life.

Fin.


End file.
